


oceans between us

by Kiseia



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood/Arsenal (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood, Breathplay, Cuddling, Drinking, Grinding, Gun Violence, Jason Todd Has Issues, M/M, Magic, Murder, Mystery Elements, Nonlinear Narrative, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Roy Harper has Issues, Self-Harm, Supernatural Elements, Unsafe Sex, Urban Fantasy, Violence, there is a lot of murdering of unnamed ocs though, this is not as bad as those tags are making it sound
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:21:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21599080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiseia/pseuds/Kiseia
Summary: "I don't care if Star can't keep its vermin to itself." The gun pushes harder under his jaw. Roy follows the movement, tipping his head back and baring more of his neck for the cold metal to touch. "You're in my city now. That makes you allmyproblem."--Roy is in Gotham getting rid of some pests. Running into the Red Hood didn't factor into his plans.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Roy Harper, Roy Harper & Dinah Lance, Roy Harper/Jason Todd
Comments: 10
Kudos: 65
Collections: JayRoy Week 2019





	oceans between us

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Crime Lord" prompt of this years Jayroy week. It could've fit the "Fantasy" prompt for day 1, too, but ~~I didn't finish on time~~ I thought it fit this one better. This is the start of an au that's been percolating in my head for a while now, and I figure now is a good time to kick it off. Enjoy!

"… you even legal, kid?"

The kid stares at him, and then he takes an exaggerated look around. "Anything here look legal to you?"

Which, yeah, okay. Fair enough. The peeling walls and rickety tables in this shitty dive doesn't exactly scream _class._ Besides, _kid_ is a bit of a misnomer. At least, he does look like he can get in without a fake if this were the type of place that bothers with carding, if only just barely. But there are traces of baby fat still clinging to his cheeks, softening the harsh angles of his bones. Once it melts, he'll be ruggedly handsome, but right now he's just _pretty._

Pretty, and peeking at him from beneath those gorgeous long lashes, and seriously, what. Roy stares down at his drink, not meeting his eyes, idly swirling it around in the glass he's clutching at like a lifeline. "So what are you doing here all by yourself?" he asks, sounding remarkably composed. "You looking for trouble?"

"Why?" the kid leans forward in his seat along with the shadows swaying at the edge of his vision. "You offering?"

Jesus. Roy raises the cup to his lips, taking a sip to hide the way he's flushing. There's a challenge there, deliberate and cocksure like he can't fathom the thought of not getting what he wants, a bravado speaking of youth and inexperience. Nothing about him is soft, from his hard-edged smile to his sharp narrow eyes to his shoulders set like he's ready to push. Even that streak of white hair at the front of his face cuts through the sea of black like a slash, a point of sharp contrast that keeps drawing attention back to itself. Back to _him,_ all that hard-edged surety clashing with the delicate vulnerability of youth, and this has to be some sort of set-up, right? A set-up that shouldn't be working because the kid's not even his _type,_ but…

"Maybe," he says, instead of _no,_ and yeah, he really needs to start working on his self-control. He'll start right on that. Tomorrow. "You got a name, kid?"

"Jason," the kid tells him, still looking at him with those eyes still burning in heat, and it's all _real._ There's no faking that type of interest, and it's almost enough to hide the cold assessment lingering behind that smokescreen.

"So, Jason," he says, setting his cup down. "You got a place?"

The kid— _Jason's_ face lights up in triumph. "Yeah," he says, lashes falling all heavy-lidded and pleased as his lips twist up in a smile like a bear trap ready to clamp down. Roy wonders if it's too early to need another goddamn drink when he hasn't even finished his first yet. "Yeah, I got a place."

*

Summer winds over the city, dragging through the streets in a slow, leaden crawl. There's a taste to a storm before it breaks – a taste like static, like ozone heavy on the back of his tongue. Roy breathes it all down and smiles, spinning the knife in his hand and says, "That wasn't so hard now, was it?"

Terrified eyes track its progress. Back and forth, back and forth, a bright silver gleam dancing in the darkness. "Please," the bound man whimpers, and Roy _tsks,_ shaking his head and sitting back on his heels.

"It's a bit too late for that," he says sympathetically. "Sorry." The man starts struggling beneath him, babbling apologies, about how he didn't mean it. He has a wife and a kid, they need him, you see? It was a mistake, please, it was a mistake—

He doesn't seem to notice Roy cutting a slice off his shirt. Not until Roy jams it into his mouth in a makeshift gag, and he chokes around his fingers, spittle flying out at the edges. Roy makes a face, wiping them clean on what remains of his fancy dress shirt. "That's better," he sighs. "Geez. You just never know when to stop, do you?"

The knife is back in his hand. "You know it's useless, right?" he asks him, slowly sliding the tip over the exposed skin of his belly. A scratchy trail of red follows it, and the man moans, shaking beneath him. "Maybe Ollie would've believed you, but Ollie's not here right now. Actually," he pauses at the edge of his dress pants. "Probably not. Nevermind. You know what he's like." His voice drops to a conspiratorial murmur. "So _impatient._ Got a stick up his ass as wide as he's tall. But I guess he would've at least made it quick for you."

He shakes his head as the knife slides down, coming to a rest between his legs, and the man lets out a muffled yell, starting to squirm again. "Too bad he sent me to do his clean-up, huh?" He taps the sharp edge against the thick, dark cloth of his dress pants, and then digs in with the point, twisting until fabric tears under his fingers. "Sorry, man," he continues over the screaming as the first drops of rain start falling outside the warehouse. "But this is going to hurt a _lot."_

*

A familiar stain of viridian poison touches him through the shadows, and Roy waits until Jason melts into place beside him. He's dressed to impress today, dark leather jacket fitted with the hills and gullies that come with long wear folding to the shapes of his body. It softens the harsh edges of his form while making him bigger at the same time, a ghost, a bogeyman stalking the darkness dealing out death and blessings in turn.

He wonders how many people see this as their last sight. Wonders at the message Jason is sending, or if there's even a message at all. Maybe he's getting too caught up in the details. Maybe he's focusing on the wrong ones. Jason is letting him lead right now, but he's hyper-aware of his presence at his back, vulnerable and exposed and far too close to his reach.

"Seems like a rough night," Jason says, his voice like a low, velvet purr of smoke. A shiver starts at the roof of his mouth, and Roy swallows it down before it reaches his back.

"It's not so bad," Roy tells him, only flinching a little when Jason touches him. A light graze of his finger over his shoulders in warning, sliding down and settling somewhere along his lower back.

Streets blur together. The darkness is pressing heavy as ever, reaching for them both, and Roy doesn't pay attention to the shapes in case he gives them form. "Stay close," Jason whispers, leaning over and letting his hot breath graze over his ear. The care he's showing is for Roy's benefit; there's no eavesdroppers here. No life, no wind, nothing but Jason's indomitable presence, heavy and solid and _real_ pressing against his back.

Another shiver. It works its way down this time, past his neck, his shoulders, sliding down to pool hot at his belly. Roy puts his hand over Jason's to tug him closer, tucking himself into the safety of his shadow. Emerald bursts under his tongue, dancing along familiar pathways of caution. "Where are we going?"

Goosebumps trail over his exposed skin, a welcome retreat from the summer heat. Streetlights filter in and out of his vision, or at least the shade of them – pale pools of flickering yellow that are no brighter than a different shade of colour. Gravel crunches under their feet, and abruptly the heat of summer slams back into him at once, heavy and hot with the taste of the ocean.

Jason pulls back. Roy takes a second to gain his bearings, to chase the last of the chill from out his chest. Darkness sways towards him, then abruptly bleeds away, and the rest of the world sharpens into focus.

"What—" he starts, and stops, looking around at the unfamiliar street. A breeze blows past, carrying the scent of garbage, of sewage stewing in the too-hot pressure cooker that makes up Gotham's summer. There's no one here except for him, standing out bright and stark among the dark backdrop like a news report waiting to happen.

"Thanks," Roy mutters, pulling a hood over his head to conceal his bright hair. The wind stirs against him in a show of solidarity, or in nothing. Nothing disturbs the still night. Nothing familiar touches on his senses.

Roy picks a random direction and starts walking.

*

"So," Jason says, licking over the bite mark he'd just put on his neck. "You always go home with the first random crazy you see, or am I just special?"

"You're special," Roy responds immediately, trying to shift up and grind against – _something_ , but Jason's hands are clamping down on his hips like braces holding him down.

Jason snorts, nudging his jaw up to put another bite mark further up his neck. "You trying to butter me up?"

"Maybe." Roy tries tugging him closer and groans when that doesn't work, either. "Is it working?"

A leg nudges between his. Suddenly those hands at his hips are curling, _lifting_ as Jason crushes him to the wall like he's trying to press his air out. "Legs around my waist, Red," Jason whispers, his breath sending hot shivers down his back. "You know how to do this, right?"

He obeys, more out of instinct than anything else. "What," he starts as Jason adjusts his grip and backs away, and he's half expecting them to fall. More than half. Waiting for it, really, ready to pull away as soon as Jason's grip falters. There's a very good reason why Roy's never been on this side of the equation before. Even if Jason is stronger than him, Roy's a pretty big guy himself. He's pretty sure a damn powerlifter would have trouble lifting a man plastered against him who weighs almost two hundred pounds.

Except they don't. Jason makes a low purr of approval, walking with ease towards the bed tucked into the corner. "Oh, hell," Roy breathes, clinging to him, dizzy from how quick his blood is rushing from his brain to his cock.

Jason dumps him none too gently on the bed, crawling up after him before he can get his bearings, and Roy feels his mouth go dry at the sight of him advancing on all fours. "Kid," he starts, reaching for his shirt so he can finally get the damn thing _off,_ but Jason snatches his hand, pinning it above his head.

"Stop calling me kid," he says, eyes narrowing into thin daggers cutting through the darkness.

"Yeah?" Roy pulls against the grip just to feel the way that it tightens, free hand curling over the sheets. "What should I call you ten?" He smiles. "Baby? Darling? Sweetheart?" He pauses. "Slut?"

"My name," Jason says, grabbing his other hand and squeezing like he wants to crush his bones. "Call me by my _name."_

Olivine stones sink in his stomach like shadows pooling beneath moss-covered graves. "Jason," Roy murmurs, arching against him and feeling the heat of his body burning above him like a miniature sun. He meets those eyes like summer storms ready to sweep in with raging winds, catching the way they falter. Not for the first time, Roy wonders if Jason even knows how to function without having something to push against. It's like he doesn't know what to do someone just _gives_ him what he wants.

Seconds pass in silence. He bares his neck, wondering if Jason wants to put a ring of bruises there matching the ones forming around his wrists. "Come on, Jason," he says, licking his lips. Does it again when Jason zeroes in on the motion, dragging his tongue slow over his bottom lip and leaving it all bright and shiny. He tugs again on the hands holding him down, tilting his head up to meet his. Lashes fall over his eyes, coy, beseeching. "Let me touch you?"

It feels like a promise he's making. Feels like a geas locking into place around them, less like a noose and more like an anchor pulling on both ends. Jason is all knives and sharp edges, ready and willing to hurt, except it feels less like a promise and more like a warning. Roy isn't self-centred enough to think that he might be the first to make himself weak for Jason, but he thinks, maybe, he's the first in a long, long time.

Maybe he's one of the few who can, now.

*

Thunder rumbles through his chest like the growling of a huge beast as he wipes his knife clean on the tattered clothes of the man dying beneath him. The rainfall almost covers the heavy wheeze of his breathing, blood spurting out in sluggish bursts from the wound on his neck. That's what most neck wounds mostly amount to – bleeding out rather than asphyxiation, but Roy is beyond making such rookie mistakes.

He's been doing this for a long, long time.

"That's the third one this month." Jason's voice settles around him with all of the warmth and comfort of a cloak made from steel wool. "You trying to prove a point to someone?"

"Not really." It's hard to pinpoint his voice through the rain and everything else. After a few seconds of trying, Roy gives up, tucking the knife back into the sheath hidden up his sleeve. "Hey, Jaybird."

Lightning splits the sky. As always, Jason's presence feels like an itch scratching at the edge of his peripheral, and then he's there – bright and bursting with static like a damn beacon announcing his presence to the world. "A bullet to the head would've been quicker."

"Yeah," Roy agrees. "It would've."

They both watch as the man takes his last breaths before succumbing to inevitability, rain washing the evidence of his life down the gutter. Jason shifts, standing beside him, and the back of Roy's neck prickles at the threat.

"You really go through all this trouble cleaning up someone else's garbage?" Jason asks, his voice full of – something. Something Roy doesn't know him well enough to describe.

He chances a peek up, blinking as water drips onto his eyes. Jason is backlit in the light of the neon sign from across the street. _25% off all large pizzas!_ It proclaims in large letters against an ever-shifting backdrop of eye-searingly bright blue and magenta pink. "I don't mind," he says slowly, wondering if he's missing something here. If there's a _point_ to all this, or… "It's my problem, too."

Jason tilts his head. Looks at him with those eyes that are far too sharp, digging deep under his skin like he's reading what's written on his bones. "It is, huh," he says, and Roy feels a prickle of irritation flush through him.

"Yeah," he says, voice coming close to the edge of snapping. "Yeah, it is. I don't want these assholes in my city." Too late, he realizes he'd inadvertently affiliated himself with Star, and Ollie by extension. And then there's no time to dwell on that because Jason is crouching beside him, sliding the cool metal of his gun under his chin.

"I don't care if Star can't keep its vermin to itself," Jason tells him, quiet and slow. "You're in my city now. That means you're all _my_ problem."

Thunder rumbles overhead. The gun pushes harder under his jaw, and Roy follows the movement, tipping his head back and baring more of his neck for the cold metal to touch. "Jason," he breathes, forcing the word out through the vise that's gripping his throat. Fear doesn't come easy to him, but Gotham's Court uses fear as a weapon. It's shaking through him now, locking down his limbs and spreading through his blood in a tremor.

Shadows stretch over his vision. The walls of the alley seem to be closing in around them, rain and thunder fading into the background. "I'm not," he starts, and swallows, reaching up to touch the hand that's holding the gun. "I'm not a problem, Jason. Not a problem for you."

"Yeah," Jason says, easy tone belaying his actions, "see, you're not the one who gets to decide that."

Chartreuse floods his senses, a fabricated synaesthesia gripping him tight, and Roy closes his eyes, swallowing back the pond scum choking out his air. "Come on," he says. "Jason, come on."

He's not desperate, not yet, but he's steadily getting there. The _thumpthumpthump_ of his heartbeat is rapidly drowning out all other noise, and Jason is the only thing he can focus on right now. Jason's shape outlined in a bright haze like a mirage, like a halo built from the discordant lights flashing in his nightmares. Jason, sharp edges scratching against his own as he pushes against him with those veins of malachite worming into his fissures. Seconds stretch into years. Roy counts his breathing as he tries to stay focused. Counts his heart that's racing to the point where he's scared that it might _give out._ Stares at the way Jason's lashes flutter over his eyes with shipwrecks already buried in those oceans, and even now he's still stupidly pretty. Still unfairly gorgeous as he looms like a monster without growing in size, and then abruptly he's not.

There's only his own adrenaline surging through him, and Roy drops his hand, sagging as Jason slides the gun down his neck in a caress that's almost tender before tucking it back into his belt. Fingers settle under his chin instead, tipping his head down to meet those bright eyes still giving him an inscrutable look, and it should be too much. Should be Roy pushing him away, spitting threats back because _fuck_ you very kindly for trying to pull one over him with these little parlour tricks.

He doesn't know if it's just him, or if it's still Jason's influence that makes every drop of rain feel like a lash cutting him open; like the ground itself is trembling at Jason's voice as another roll of thunder shakes through them. He's not in danger right now, but he's keenly aware of how that can change at any moment. It makes him want to lean harder on the razor wire of Jason's control that they're balancing on. Wants to _push,_ to see just how far he can take it.

"Roy," Jason says quietly. There's a question burning in his eyes that he's obviously itching to ask, a storm held at bay by a fraying rope snapping with each gust. His fingers dig into his skin, and then they fall away. "I hope you know what you're doing."

*

Mist spills in from across the waters, creeping low over the rocky shores like a pack of white wolves stalking their prey. Goosebumps break over his arm, and Roy pauses, taking a look around at where he's stalling.

"Shit," he mutters, peeling his hood back and running a hand through his sweaty hair. "For the record," he says, speaking to the closest shadow, "this is not my fault."

The familiar city is replaced by this barren xeriscape shrouded in an ever-shifting blanket of white. Only the sound of the ocean lapping against the rocks breaks through the quiet, muted like its being filtered through a cotton screen. Aside from him, there's nothing else here that signifies life; no crickets, no rats skittering through the nonexistent underbrush. Not even saltgrass gripping at the edges of the cliffs, standing stiff and proud among the bodies of their dead sisters swaying over the water.

It's creepy as hell.

"Seriously, Bruce," he mutters, shrinking back into the darkness that's almost starting to feel familiar now. "I wouldn't mind a little help here."

Silence. He waits, craning his neck back to look at the sky, but if there is a moon here it's hiding behind the same thick veil that covers everything else. There's no shift of movement, no breeze blowing through stirring the eddies of fog that swirl like a river around him. Just the same heavy, obtrusive quiet that should've been his first sign that something was off.

"Right," he says. "Okay. Forget it. If I get lost, I'm coming back as a ghost just to haunt you."

Slowly, he starts walking again, heading the same way he was going. There's no use trying to double back; in places like this, reality exists only for as long as it's needed. The paths drawn are more like impermanent suggestions etched onto an ever-shifting landscape, a line traced onto wet sand before the next wave washes it away. In theory it shouldn't be too hard getting back to Gotham – he can still feel her heartbeat thumping through him like an oil slick, staining his soul darker with each soft pulse. Except Arkham is a part of Gotham too, and he isn't a part of her Court. It'll be too easy to follow the wrong path, or to slip sideways and fall into the Fade for real.

He's having a hard time deciding which option is worse.

A light scuffle sounds in front of him. Roy narrows his eyes, trying to peer past the thick fog, only—

"Dinah?" he asks, baffled. "What are you doing here?"

She gives him an unimpressed look, stepping through the fog like a siren rising out of the water. "Saving you, by the looks of it," she says, reaching out and grabbing his wrist with one black-manicured hand. The splash of her presence feels like a balm soothing away his apprehensions, a quiet reassurance and a reminder of home tugging him back to the right path.

"I thought you were back in Star," he says, frowning at her back.

"I was," she answers, turning her head to give him a brief flash of a grin. "Why? You don't want to see me?"

"It's not that," he says, defensive. "You just… surprised me, that's all."

Already the fog is starting to grow thinner. Slowly, the sound of lapping water retreats, and finally the sky starts changing for the first time in what feels like hours. Moonlight peeks from behind the dark clouds, splashing her hair until it turns white, until the faux vinyl of her jacket glows in opposition to the shadows creeping around them. Burns the fog away until it's just mist swirling over their ankles, forming a smokescreen between them and the rest of the world.

A headache starts building behind his eyes. Roy stops trying to force the world into focus, staring at Dinah instead, and then down at their feet as rocks turn to gravel, to dirt, and finally, pavement. A breeze drifts past, carrying the scent of smoke and barbeque as cars whizz past in the distance, and only then does he notice the heat pressing away his goosebumps. Roy takes a breath of the thick heavy air and coughs to Dinah's laughter, and he breaks her hold, waving his hand in front of his face.

"Yeah, yeah," he says, "laugh it up."

"Oh, I will." She folds her arms, leaning against the outer stucco wall of a building. "So, Roy," she says in the same casual tone, "What were you doing looking for Arkham?"

He tries taking another breath and coughs again. "Would you believe me if I said it was an accident?"

"You were looking for _something."_ She steps closer, brushing the wrinkles out of his shirt. Blue eyes rove over him, looking for whatever stains and scuff marks that might give him away. Sometimes he forgets that Dinah belongs to Gotham as much as she belongs to Star, maybe because she's not so _dark,_ or because she isn't a Bat. Most people think of them as one and the same, but Gotham's Court and the Court of the Bat is more like a Venn diagram. Oracle's Court is another overlapping circle, a more recent addition to the mess of competing factions and loyalties that exist in this city. He still doesn't know how they make it all work.

"Come on, Dinah." He folds his hand over her wrist, cradling it instead of pushing it away. "I'm fine."

"Because I went to get you," she points out, frowning. "What if I wasn't here?"

"Someone else would've." At her arched brow, he smiles. "Really. I promise I'm not just talking out of my ass. Trust me, alright?"

She gives him a long, searching look, and sighs, turning her hand around so that she's holding his instead. "I do trust you, Roy. But I still don't like this."

Something hurts in his chest. "Rub it in, why don't you?" he says, trying for light and missing by a mile. "I already know I'm not the first choice."

"Oh, darling." She leans into him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and he clutches her close, burying his face into her hair. She smells so much like home that it makes him _ache,_ and God, he misses her, misses them all so much. "You know that's not the reason."

"I know," he mumbles, closing his eyes. "Sorry."

"You got out," she continues, quieter. "You got out, Roy." Her sigh gusts against his shoulder. "We never should've dragged you back in."

*

Something swallows up his target right before he pulls the trigger. Roy swears, lowering the scope of his rifle and ducking right as a dark shape flies over his head and crashes into the concrete with a metallic _clang._ "Fuck's sake, Dick," he grumbles. "Give a little warning next time."

"Now where's the fun in that?" A shape detaches from the shadows, flipping over him and landing on the roof with a flourish. Sarcastically, Roy claps, and Dick's grin grows wider. "Thank you, thank you," he says, giving a theatrical bow. "I try."

"Show off," Roy mutters, rolling his eyes.

"You know me." Dick slings an arm around his waist, pulling him close with a grip that's deceptively strong. "So when were you planning to tell me you're in town?"

"Uh," he says. "… soon?"

"Really?" Dick's grin is a slash of white fangs cutting through the night, his voice saccharine sweet like hemlock drizzled in honey. "And here I was so sad, thinking you were trying to avoid me or something. You wouldn't do that, would you, Roy?"

"Of course not." Roy tries pulling away, but Dick's grip is relentless, an iron band keeping him trapped against the lithe wall of his body. Sweet and gorgeous and all full of danger, and it isn't like him, showing his hand so early. Either he's worried, or he's _pissed,_ and Roy knows which one he's banking on. It isn't the _preferred_ option, granted, but unfortunately Roy knows him too well to project any false motives on him. "I'm just – I'm running behind schedule, alright? I would've told you if I knew I was going to stay this long."

Dick says, "Oh, that's _funny._ So you don't have time to drop by and say hi, but you _do_ have time to shack up with my little brother."

Yeah, it's pissed. Definitely pissed.

"It's not like that." He tries pulling away again, keenly aware that Dick is pulling them towards the darkest corner of the roof. "Seriously, it's – will you stop that?"

"Nope," Dick says cheerfully, letting him go only to shove him hard against a wall. "Not until you tell me what's going on."

Abruptly, the playful lilt drops from his voice. Roy blinks the dots out of his vision, pulling his breath back into his lungs. "What's gotten into you?" he asks, more irritated than scared. "Look, I'm sorry, alright? But I haven't touched _anyone_ from Gotham." He blows out a breath. "I'm just doing a favour for Ollie."

"And where does Jason factor into this?"

"He _doesn't."_ He reaches up, puts his hand over Dick's and tugs on his wrist. "He caught me on my first day here and – look, it's none of your business. Jason's an adult. I'm an adult. Let _go,_ Dick."

Dick stares at him longer, those same sharp eyes that remind him of Jason, of _Bruce,_ before he breathes out and sags, letting him drop against the wall. "You don't know what you're dealing with, Roy."

"Yeah, fuck you," Roy snaps, narrowing his eyes in a glare. He's starting to get pretty tired of hearing that. "What, a few years out of the game and you think I'm suddenly useless? Well newsflash, Grayson—"

"It's not that," Dick tells him, cutting him off by throwing his own words back at him. Tensions runs through his spine, pulling his back tight in a hard, rigid line, and Roy's shoulders ache in sympathy. "Look, just – finish up here and _get out,_ alright?"

"Dick," Roy says quietly, anger fading as quick as it came. "What's going on?"

Dick shakes his head. "Get out, Roy," he says while backing away. "It doesn't involve you."

"Don't you _dare,_ Grayson." Roy lunges forward, fingers closing around empty air. "God _dammit."_ He swears, tipping his head down and scrubbing a hand down his face.

Yeah, he's starting to get _real_ tired of this bullcrap.

*

"Shit," Jason rasps, sinking further into his mouth, and Roy moans in agreement, tipping his head back for a better angle. He's so _big,_ so heavy and thick on his tongue and pushing into every damn inch of his throat. Roy looks up at him, eyes blowing big as saucers. Keeps looking until he _can't,_ until reflexive tears spring to his eyes, and Jason almost pulls back until he whimpers, leaning forward and making himself gag around him.

 _"Fuck,"_ Jason groans, pulling at his hair like he wants to yank it off, fingers curling like iron bands holding him down. He pulls back just enough for Roy to suck down a short gasp of air before pushing back in, and in, and _in,_ hot like a firebrand sinking into his mouth. Burning into his lungs, a caldera bubbling with heat stealing away all his air and he's so far down Roy can't think, can't breathe around him. Can't swallow, drool slipping down his chin as his throat convulses around the intrusion. Can't do anything but _take it_ as Jason drives into him again and again in an increasingly erratic rhythm, curling over him and moaning as his careful control slips and floods him with that same wild hunger.

Nails bite into the thick thighs tremoring around him. It's good, it's _good,_ that desperate tide surging in him rising to meet Jason's rough movements. Growing stronger as his lungs burn, nostrils flaring as he tries sucking down short, desperate huffs of air in between each thrust, and every bit of him is lighting in danger. Fighting off the flood of verdigris settling in along with Jason's musk, an acid tasting the same way poison feels, and he wants to be swept away. Wants to drown in it, drown in the deluge Jason is giving, and when Jason curses and yanks him closer he lets him even as every bit of him starts shaking from the pressure.

Whatever he says next is drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears. Roy can't even moan, lungs seizing as Jason's balls pull tight against his chin, hot, hard length growing stiff and pulsing as he comes.

Black dots dance in his vision. A distant part of him wonders if Jason can feel his heartbeat pounding in his throat, louder and louder the longer he goes without breathing. His chest is pulling so tight that it's starting to hurt, thoughts blurring at the edges in fuzzy halo before they go all _quiet,_ and he's seizing, caught in this desperate pull.

Jason finally pulls back, and Roy sucks down a harsh breath before he's even fully out. "Shit," Jason mutters, and then he's gone, scraping his throat raw with his absence, and Roy curls to the side, chest spasming with coughs as he sucks down lungfuls of burning air.

It's hours or days when he can finally control his breathing, wresting it down from the desperate gasps that don't actually help to something more controlled. Longer, before he pulls the scattered pieces of himself together and feels Jason rubbing circles on his back, his arm at his shoulder propping him up. "Shit, did I break you?" he's mumbling, sounding half-hysteric and caught between concern and incredulity. "Please tell me I didn't break you."

Roy croaks out a dry rasp and leans into him, closing his eyes and soaking in the comfort of his presence.

"Red. Hey, Red." Jason jostles him, and then reaches down, brushing his hair out of his face with uncharacteristic gentleness before reaching down and roughly pulling him up to face him. "Shit," he breathes. "Fuck, you're a mess."

 _Your fault,_ Roy wants to say, but his mouth doesn't seem to be working.

Jason reaches out, brushes away some of the tears still lingering on his cheeks – the ones that haven't already dried to trails of salt pulling at his skin. "What the hell," he says, still seemingly caught between what to feel. "Jesus. There's something wrong with you."

Roy closes his eyes, lips grazing his palm. Maybe. Maybe he's right. And maybe this is the most gentle Jason's ever touched him. Every other time Jason holds him like he has to hold him _down,_ and maybe Roy just wants to get it through his thick head that _he doesn't have to._ There aren't conditions attached to his surrender, and nothing in their lives come free, but there's no point in him taking when Roy is fully ready to give. _Who did this to you,_ he wants to ask. Who taught him that pleasure always comes with a side of hurt, and that he always has to steal every bit of good he's given because all promises get broken and no one ever sticks to their words. And it's true that they don't really know each other, and hell, they're barely friends, but it just seems like a shame, that's all.

Seems like a damn tragedy, really, the way Jason keeps biting at him, keeps waiting for him to push back, and keeps getting confused when he doesn't. It's not that Roy minds mixing pain in with his pleasure, but sometimes he wants a good fuck, and sometimes he wants a good fight, and sometimes he wants them both, simultaneously, but the wanting is different for each. Jason doesn't seem to see the difference. Jason seems to think that they're all one and the same, and it should be about _choice,_ not the lack of it.

Jason dips down, his breath grazing his hair. Lets go of his chin and reaching down instead, touching the place where he's still hard, and Roy shudders, curling into him. _Jason,_ he mouths against his shoulder, and Jason brushes his fingers through his hair like he's something fragile, like he's scared of breaking him now. And it makes sense, because he keeps flashing his teeth while never making the first move. Keeps making him hurt while not making him bleed, and that's probably as close to gentle as he can get.

"I'm warning you now," Jason says, still speaking to the top of his head, "don't expect me to be thankful. If you choke to death on my dick, that's your own damn fault."

A surprised rasp of laughter claws its way out of his sore throat, and Roy smiles against his skin, shaking as Jason squeezes him and tugs, even at this awkward angle.

Yeah. Yeah, he can live with that.

*

"I keep telling you," he says, drawing a line through the sand. "It's not about pride."

Green flashes at the edge of his teeth, dull like a toothache. He cuts his wrist open, gritting his teeth at the pain and lets his blood run down into the sigil. At first it vanishes as soon as it touches the grains, desert ground greedily sucking down the moisture, but then it starts to run, pooling outwards into the impression. He gets up, walking around the edge of the circle and letting it drip onto every curve so that it doesn't overflow.

"It's not love either, okay?" He frowns, dizziness pulsing behind his eyes. "And it's not about _you."_ He almost shakes his head before deciding not to risk it, moving his shaking hand over the lines. "Look. I don't…" his knees threaten to collapse. A cool mist seems to float around him, buoying him up even as his nerves keep firing the wrong pulse.

 _Difficult,_ it coos, _difficult even when dying._

"M'not dying," he mumbles, forcing his eyes open against the black haze surrounding them. "Doesn't… doesn't count."

The dreamscape wavers around him. White sand. Blue skies. Ripples of heat shimmering in the horizon. Grit rubs at his cheek, making his eyes sting with tears.

 _Cut me off,_ he thinks before it fades, and he's plunged back into his memories.

*

Sometimes, Roy dreams of burning.

Dreams of the sun beating down upon the desert, red-grey rocks reflecting the light back until the air feels like an oven shimmering around him. Back then, it hadn't seemed so odd – the dry air sucking the moisture from his breaths, his sweat and leaving tracks of salt all over his skin. The hot days sinking into cold nights that draw out goosebumps instead, always vacillating between the two extremes. Humidity has a weight to it, pressing summers into a long hot haze with no reprieve even in the shadows of night, stretching winters into one long march of misery sinking deep into his core. It had taken months of settling in Star before the air stopped feeling heavy; longer, for everything to stop feeling dirty, a film of _wet_ coating everything he touches. He was forged in fire and raised in rain, and when the downpour becomes too much he closes his eyes and he dreams of fire still.

Right now, Roy feels like he is drowning.

Ash still lingers in his mouth when he wakes up, blinking into the pillow. Light filters in through the gauzy curtains, splashing across their bodies in a thin mist barely lifting the gloom. There's warmth at his back, soft breaths stirring his neck. An arm thrown over his waist, keeping him trapped against the smooth cotton sheets covering a too-soft mattress in the deceptively dingy duplex that Jason owns. Outside, he can hear the birds chirping as the last vestiges of the sky fade from sunrise to morning.

Jason presses closer against him, grumbling into his hair. It's too hot right now to be plastered against another body like this, but Roy just pats his arm, sinking further into his embrace. "Go back to sleep," he mumbles, keeping his voice soft.

"Why the hell are you up." Jason's deep voice rumbles in his chest like an earthquake. Like all Bats, he's a creature of the night. Left to his own devices, he'll sleep past noon, but he always seems to wake whenever Roy does. Unfortunately for him, Roy doesn't seem capable of sleeping past ten anymore.

"I'm not going anywhere," he tells Jason, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu. There's something lingering behind all that ash, something sharp and astringent like acetone. At first he thinks it's Jason, but Jason is a covered well right now, darkness covering the parts of him rising in ripples. Heat and dust and something that feels too familiar, something that he should know tickles at the back of his mind, and the details of his dream are growing fainter by the minute. "Go back to sleep."

"Shut up," Jason sighs, curling around him in a bracket. Their legs tangle together, chest pressing against his back, and Roy finds himself counting the slow, steady beating of his heart. There's no way either of them are going back to sleep again, but Jason is quiet, seemingly content to doze in the silence.

One. Two. Three hundred. Four. Roy stares out at the curtains, Jason burning behind him like a taste of home. Like an answer to a question he should know, and he wants to give him an answer too, but—

Sometimes, he wishes he were a better liar.

The sun rises. Roy doesn't notice his tears until he turns his cheek into the damp pillow.


End file.
